


Running Mates

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Category: Dark Angel
Genre: F/M, West Wing Title Project
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-19
Updated: 2008-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-03 20:48:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fine, revved up sister like Max needs a little excitement sometimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running Mates

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Minim Calibre's birthday (and also for [**the West Wing title project**](http://musesfool.livejournal.com/1487052.html)). Thanks to angelgazing for looking it over.

Max should be used to it, the itch under her skin from sitting still too long, the way she starts to lose focus, has to get up and walk around the room for a few minutes before she can settle back down in her chair and focus on whatever paperwork is piled up on her desk.

She stretches and sighs when it doesn't pass, just gets stronger, drives her out of the small makeshift office she claimed when she moved into Terminal City for good.

Of all the things she misses about Jam Pony, she never expected the actual work to be one of them, but miss it she does. It was an innocuous, often sociable way to burn off excess energy, and sitting behind a desk most of the day can't compare. Not that she's complaining about the current truce between the government and the transgenics. It's just that she never expected to end up behind a desk, running a city, and a fine, revved up sister like herself needs a little excitement sometimes.

She slings a leg over her bike and pulls her phone out of her pocket. She sends one text before she tears off into the city: Catch me if you can.

Max opens herself up to the rush of wind in her hair, the vibration of the bike between her legs, the roar of the engine as she goes full-throttle. The joy of freedom.

She misses this, too. She knows it's dangerous to sneak away, that the leaders of Terminal City shouldn't be playing tag with each other through the streets of Seattle while Mole holds down the fort, but after a week of dull supply runs and fruitless negotiations with the government, of dealing with hours of paperwork and a to-do list that never seems to end, they both need to blow off some steam.

That's what Max tells herself, anyway.

She hears him well before she sees him, especially in the misty late afternoon, the particular hum of his bike as familiar as her own now. They dodge in and out of traffic, down alleyways and through crowded streets, until they have to leave the bikes behind and take up the game on foot.

She leads him up fire escapes and across rooftops, and then back down to the street, the hair on the back of her neck prickling as he gains ground when she stops for a moment to admire a pretty dress in a store window, or toss a ball back to some kids playing in the park.

The low overcast darkens with twilight and it starts to rain in earnest as she circles back to the base of the Space Needle, surefooted and quick on the steps, loving the stretch and burn of her muscles, the power in her legs that lets her do this, have this, the pure physical thrill of movement, of speed.

She reaches the top and laughs as the warm rain hits her heated skin. She turns her face up into it, for once not minding the soaking. She can hear Alec making his way up the steps--he's not even trying to be stealthy, and anyway, she knows he's coming, invited him along in the first place--and she feels a little thrill at that, too.

His arm slides around her waist and she turns into his embrace, face tipped up for a kiss. His mouth is sweet and hot over hers, and she lets herself drown in it. She can feel the rapid beat of his heart against her chest, runs her lips over the fluttering pulse at the base of his throat before skimming the fine edge of his collarbone with her teeth, savoring the salt-tang of his sweat and the metallic taste of rain on her tongue.

His hands slide up under her wet tank top, warm against her skin, and a soft moan escapes her throat. He grins, and she raises her head to suck his lower lip between hers, kiss the smug smile off his face.

When she pulls back, he growls in protest, and his eyes are dark, but he's still grinning.

"Tag," he says, "you're it." And then he takes off down the stairs, laughing.

Max flips her wet hair over her shoulder, laughs, and follows.

end

~*~


End file.
